


What I Wouldn't Do For You

by katikat



Category: Charmed
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katikat/pseuds/katikat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is destined to die. Wyatt refuses to accept that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conversation about Death

"Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives." - A. Sachs.

*-*-*-*

It's a really strange feeling to know the exact year, month and day that you'll die, Chris thought as he stood by the kitchen window, drinking his morning coffee. The day was truly beautiful outside, sun warm, spring returning once more. The last spring of his life. A truly strange feeling.

"You're thinking about it again, aren't you?"

The kind voice that whispered through the kitchen like the rustle of wings made Chris smile. "Hello, Clarence," he greeted the Angel of Death without turning around.

The black man walked around the kitchen table slowly, his steps making no sound on the tiled floor. "Am I right? You're thinking about your death again, about dying?" the angel pressed gently, his broad face affectionate.

Chris turned to him, leaning against the kitchen sink with his hip. He hugged himself with his left arm, the cup of steaming coffee in his right hand raised to his lips. "Of course I am," he answered but his voice was calm, no tremor, no fear. Strange, he thought again.

Sighing, Clarence shook his head and his eyes filled with sorrow. "You shouldn't know. You shouldn't have ever found out."

Smiling, Chris cocked his head to the side. "Second chances and all that... You always pay a price, you know that. I got to live another twenty-two years, I got to remember what happened and what could happen. I had the chance to forget, to let you and...," looking up to the ceiling, he pointed upwards, "change it, give me carte blanche but I chose not to. Too much hung in the balance and I needed my... little me," his lips curled up in a smile, "to know what to watch out for to keep Wyatt from turning evil. It was my chance to truly change the future and I had to take it."

Clarence looked at him, his face still sad. "But was it really worth it? To live your whole life with the clock ticking in the background?"

"The clock's ticking for every one of us. Some just hear it louder than others." Chris shrugged. Then he smiled again and reaching out, he patted Clarence's shoulder. "You've always been a good friend to me, always watching out for me. You shouldn't worry so much."

Chuckling, Clarence shook his head. "You are a strange one, Christopher, to consider an Angel of Death a friend."

Smiling, Chris shrugged. "Usually, you find the best friends in the most unusual places." Then he grew serious again and looked Clarence directly in the eyes. "Stop worrying about me, my friend. I'm content with my life. It doesn't matter how long you live but what you do with the time you've been given. And I have lived my life to the fullest, surrounded by family and friends." Suddenly, he grinned again. "Besides, look at Grams. She's more alive now that she's dead than she ever was before. Who knows what the future and afterlife might bring."

Clarence shook his head, his voice gentle when he spoke. "I can't help it. I will always worry about you."

"Are all Angels of Death so involved with their former... clients?" Chris asked teasingly.

"You are a special case, Christopher," Clarence assured him.

Chris smiled. "That's good to know..."

Clarence reached out and squeezed Chris' shoulder. "I will see you around then."

"I will be waiting," Chris promised.

And then Chris was alone in the kitchen again, standing by the sink, his coffee cold. Emptying the cup into the sink, Chris poured himself another one. A new day had begun.

The End


	2. Fade to Black

"There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is to get it." - George Bernard Shaw.

*-*-*-*

His sole goal in life was to keep Wyatt safe, to keep him from turning evil. And now he'd achieved it. Wyatt was safe, Wyatt was a good witch, he died protecting his brother but he never thought that it would be like this. Never...

*-*-*-*

Chris and Wyatt were at the supermarket down the street, picking up the last bits and pieces for Chris' birthday party - some napkins, paper plates and some sort of unpronounceable Vietnamese spice that Piper wanted to try on their barbecue food. They were laughing, bickering and shoving each other and once their basket was full, they headed for the cash desk.

They just rounded the end of the last aisle, Chris in front, Wyatt bouncing behind him and poking his brother in the ribs, when the counter came in sight and Chris stopped so abruptly that Wyatt ran into him from behind.

There, at the cash desk, a man with greasy yellow hair stood, clothes stiff with filth, a baseball cap on his head... and he was pointing a sawed-off shotgun at the cashier. The robber had heard them coming, heard their laughter and now he swung around, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Chris noticed that the man had blue eyes, that they were wild and wide open, crazy... before shoving Wyatt back hard behind the shelf, the basket dropping to the tiled floor, spilling its contents everywhere. The powerful blast caught him directly in the chest from not even ten feet away. It lifted him from his feet and threw him backwards and dimly, he thought: "Ouch, that'll hurt..."

He never felt himself hitting the ground.

*-*-*-*

When he opened his eyes, he was still there, in the store but everything was eerily quiet. There were no shouts, no shooting, no sound of feet running. For a moment he feared that he'd gone deaf or that everybody was dead. That Wyatt was dead!

Sitting up abruptly, he wanted to call out to his brother but before he could even open his mouth, a gentle voice stopped him. "Easy, Christopher. It's over. Everything is over now."

Blinking, Chris looked up and there he was, Clarence. In white clothes, surrounded by a halo of golden light. His personal Angel of Death had come for him. His appointed life-span had run out.

"Clarence?" Chris whispered. His mind felt still rather fuzzy.

The dark-skinned man smiled and offering Chris a hand, he helped the younger man stand. "Did you expect someone else?" he chided. "I promised to come for you when your time arrived."

Chris nodded numbly. So that was it. It was over. Everything was over. No more everyday worries, no more potions to mix and no more demons to kill. No more getting up at the crack of dawn to get to the shower before his brother ran it cold...

Brother! Wyatt!

Snapping to attention, Chris looked around wildly but the store was empty: there was no body, no bloody smear, nothing at all. There were no people and the shop's windows were blank, showing no street or cars or pedestrians...

Chris turned towards Clarence and gripped the Angel of Death's hand. "Wyatt! Where's Wyatt, Clarence? Is he okay? Is he safe?" he asked, panicking. He remembered pushing Wyatt away to protect him from the shotgun's blast but that was it. Chris didn't know what happened to his brother.

Clarence looked at him, sad and sorrowful. "He's not here, Christopher," he said softly.

Chris' panic didn't subside. "Does that mean that he's okay?" he demanded anxiously.

Shaking his head, Clarence sighed. "I don't know. I came for you. You were my assignment. I don't know if another Angel of Death..."

Chris squeezed Clarence arm even tighter and shook him. "Please, can we look? Please, Clarence. I need to know that he's okay."

Looking very sympathetic, Clarence nonetheless shook his head firmly. "No, Christopher. You are dead and your place isn't on Earth anymore. I must take you where you belong. Even now, we've been here longer than appropriate. The rules..."

"Screw the rules!" Chris shouted, stepping away from Clarence. "Screw them! In the last twenty-three years, you've bent the rules so many times where I was concerned. What's another exception?" There was so much desperation in his voice, so much pain when he continued. "I need to know for sure, Clarence. I devoted my whole life to his protection. I need to know that he's okay." His voice broke and there were tears in his eyes.

Clarence frowned, then shifted uncomfortably, knowing that Chris' words about bending the rules were true. In the end, he just sighed and shook is head but it wasn't a gesture of refusal but one of resignation. "Fine," he submitted. "I always had a soft spot for you." He lifted his forefinger in warning though. "But this is the last time!"

Chris nodded and watched as Clarence closed his eyes and concentrated, then waved his hand. And suddenly, everything rushed back: cars, people, movement, sounds...

A harsh, painful sobbing.

Slowly, Chris turned towards the sound and his throat tightened. "Oh, Wyatt..." he whispered, covering his mouth with his hand.

There he was, Wyatt, sitting on the ground and holding Chris' bloodied, lifeless body in his arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth. He was embracing Chris tightly, clinging to his brother. There was a dark, red smear on the white wall where Chris hit it before sliding down, the pool of blood growing larger and larger around the brothers, soaking into both of their clothes. Wyatt's skin was snow white, eyes swollen and tightly closed, tears running down his cheeks. His blond curls were disheveled and there was a bruise forming on his forehead where he must have hit his head when Chris shoved him.

Wyatt was disconsolate and his desperation was rolling off of him in waves. And Chris couldn't stand seeing his brother like this.

Chris wanted to step closer but Clarence gripped his arm tightly. "No, Christopher," he said and this time, his tone didn't allow any arguments.

"But..."

Shaking his head, Clarence repeated. "No."

Chris stood there helplessly, his heart seizing painfully. He knew that he was going to die but he never thought that it would be like this. He never realized how much his death would hurt the people he would leave behind. He was so sure that his family would be okay, that they would face the loss together, that they would...

But now, seeing Wyatt so desolate... His brother was still sitting there, rocking Chris' dead body gently, petting his hair and his back, whispering "nonononono" under his breath while more and more tears were sliding down his flushed cheeks.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"We must go." Clarence's voice was kind, sympathetic but firm and when Chris looked at him with tearful eyes to beg for... he wasn't even sure for what... the Angel of Death just shook his head and laid a gentle hand on his charge's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

And then everything faded to black.

The End


	3. Ashes in the Dust

"We desire nothing so much as what we ought not to have." - Publilius Syrus.

*-*-*-*

They think that he's losing his mind; mom, dad and the rest of the family. They want him to grieve, yes, but to let go too. To... move on, as they call it. But how can he? Chris died in front of him... died for him. Again. And he just can't let it... him go like that, without fight. No, he won't.

*-*-*-*

The library of the Magic School is huge and dusty, much larger than what it looks like from the outside, space folded in on itself. One could get lost among the rows and rows of shelves holding ancient books and scrolls, with sunlight seeping in through grimy windows and dust motes dancing in its rays. Every now and then, there is the sound of fragile pages rustling and crackling as someone goes through one of the old tomes somewhere in the large room, soaking up its old wisdom.

Wyatt is sitting on the top of the ladder in the part of the library that's dedicated to the dead ones, to ghosts and wraiths and zombies. This part of the library is empty but for him, too creepy for the young students, too dangerous for the wise masters. He's leafing through an ancient tome, barely able to discern the faint writing in the dim light. The pages shiver at his touch, their edges falling to dust under his fingertips, clinging to his skin. He doesn't remember how long he has been here, in the library, or even if this is the thirtieth or the fortieth book that he's gone through. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but finding something, some way to bring Chris back. Christopher, his younger brother...

He closes the tome with a loud thud that raises a cloud of dust. Lowering his head, Wyatt slumps and presses his forehead to the leather binding. He's growing more and more desperate with each passing day. It's been two weeks since Chris died on him... Wyatt didn't even go to the funeral. He just couldn't. He could still feel his brother's blood on his hands, warm and sticky...

Piper and Leo, the family, they don't understand. They don't know. They don't know that Wyatt remembers Chris dying on him the first time, in the attic, stabbed with an athame. And now he was killed... murdered again. Trying to save his older brother once more. Wyatt wonders if he's maybe cursed, if he's doomed to bring death to his brother again and again. But if that is the case he's determined to not let it happen this time.

The Charmed Ones locked the Book of Shadows away, hid it from him after they found him looking for the spell that would allow him go back in time and save Chris. But even if he can't get his hands on that Book, there is a whole library of magic tomes and one of them has to contain something, anything...

Wyatt knows of that other future, the one where he went dark and evil, using black magic and doing twisted, forbidden things. Raising the dead is one those things, forbidden. If he manages to bring Chris back, does he risk becoming evil again? Will he twist the future back to what it was? Wouldn't it dishonor Chris' sacrifice? But is his life, this life worth living without Chris?

The others don't really understand how close he and Chris were... are. After he watched Chris die, something fundamental changed in him. He promised himself that he would always, always protect his little brother. But he failed anyway. He has failed his whole life. No matter what he did, he still felt like Chris was his guardian angel. He sometimes wondered if Chris remembered his past maybe, the other future. He never said anything but then, Chris was always a bit weird like that.

Wyatt smiles involuntarily. After Jessica died, their tyke of a little sister, they became even closer, like one soul in two bodies, sharing their grief and their guilt, no matter how misguided. And now one part of the soul has gone and Wyatt feels... incomplete, like he can't breathe properly, like he's bleeding all the time, a wound ripped open with no chance of ever healing. Can he live like this for the rest of his days?

He already knows the answer to that particular question. So now he only has to ask himself, how much he's ready to sacrifice to get his missing half back. His magic? His life? The world?

Yes.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Wyatt sets the dusty tome aside, straightens his back and reaches out for the book on the topmost shelf, safely hidden among the cobwebs and tomes about living death and reincarnation. He can sense its power shuddering, calling to him, he feels the heat the book emanates. Touching the spine, his fingertips burn and his breath hitches. Gritting his teeth, Wyatt pulls and the book falls into his hands like it's the place where it always should have been. On his lap, the seal heats up. It glows read, then almost white. It pops open by itself, releasing the leather strap with a distant, earth-shattering clap of thunder. The title is revealed...

Necronomicon.

The End


	4. Darkness Creeping In

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power." - Abraham Lincoln.

*-*-*-*

Chris doesn't know where his soul is going, where the mighty power that grabbed him from the afterlife is pulling him, to what place and who's calling him. But he can't resist the voice luring him back to the world of living, using the words of an ancient binding ritual to summon him and make him stay. He's so confused, so new at this... being dead that he doesn't understand what's happening to him.

And then he's there, in the world of mortals once more. He's as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke or morning mists over the San Francisco bay. He feels detached but mildly uncomfortable and there's a dark sense of foreboding sending shivers up his unearthly spine.

Chris looks around. Walls with broken mortar, dirty stained windows, a high, vaulted ceiling and rows and rows of dust covered, chipped pews. A church, abandoned. He stands in the aisle, right in the middle between the half open door and the altar two steps above the main level of the church, a myriad of candles surrounding the bare wooden table without a cloth and the statue of the Holy Maria with her outstretched arms lying smashed on the ground.

There's something there, on the polished desk. It's a body, a human body... dead, if he isn't mistaken. Who...

"Hello, Chris."

The voice is pleasant and it echoes through the altar room. The man is standing in the shadows behind the altar and he holds a leather bound tome in his hands. He's dressed all in black from his pants and boots to a shirt open at the neck. The man steps forward, the candles lightening his blond hair, giving him an unnatural, almost wicked halo. The smile that brightens his pale, grim face is so familiar...

"Wyatt?" Chris asks, unsure and his voice is barely a whisper in the vast space of the church.

The blond man smiles wider, almost grins. "You recognize me." He sounds relieved. "This thing," he taps the leather bound book, "said that you might not remember what had been, so shortly after death, that some things might stay lost if I summoned you too early before you gained substantiality in the afterlife, before you severed all your connections to your mortal life and became a separate entity that could be summoned as a whole... But I couldn't wait anymore, I'm sorry."

Chris is frowning now. He doesn't understand. His brother is smiling at him gently, waiting for him to move forward. And so Chris does. He doesn't walk, he floats gently towards the altar, towards his brother and...

Floating up the marble steps, he looks down at the body lying on the altar that's carved with strange, occult symbols. It's him, Christoper Halliwell, as he was buried... he's not sure how long ago. The body is naked, covered with a white cloth from the waist down for modesty, and there is a big hole where he was shot in his pale, pale chest. Chris looks at his face that's porcelain white, eyes closed, grey lips parted.

"I preserved it as best as I could. The book told me how," Wyatt explains, tapping the tome again.

Chris looks up, looks Wyatt in the face, in the eyes. There's so much fear, so much anguish behind the smiling mask and Chris still doesn't understand. He remembers that this is his brother and that he himself is dead. But how... why...? Details elude him. He thinks he should ask but Wyatt is so anxious for him to remember. Chris doesn't want to disappoint him. And so he just nods and Wyatt is content with that.

Raising his hand, Chris is tempted to touch the mortal shell that he used to wear, but he doesn't. "What are you...? I..."

Wyatt sets the book down on the altar next to the body's head, a strange looking athame lying in a hand's reach. "I'll bring you back to life," he says, his voice firm and steady, determined.

Chris frowns again. Bring him back to life? Wasn't that... forbidden?

Seeing his brother's confused frown, Wyatt continues. "What that scumbag did to you was wrong. You didn't deserve to die. And I will now rectify that."

"How?" Chris asks. His thoughts are weirdly muddled and it's hard for him to think straight. He knows that there is something very, very wrong here, something he needs to stop from happening but he can't focus his thoughts enough to figure out what.

Wyatt leaves the altar but he never turns away completely, as if he's afraid to let Chris out of his sight. He heads for the door leading into the vestry and pushing it open with a loud creak of the unoiled hinges, he reaches into the doorway and pulls out something... someone, bound, gagged and struggling. It's a man with greasy yellow hair and blue eyes open wide with horror, a little crazed too maybe.

Wyatt drags the resisting man to the altar where he drops the stranger to his knees and when the man tries to rise and dart away, Wyatt grabs him by the hair and smashes his head against the corner of the altar. The stunned stranger is left hanging in Wyatt's grasp.

"It's pretty easy, really," Wyatt says, finally answering Chris' question. His voice is cold and terrifying and despite of his incorporeal state, Chris shudders. "One life for another."

Chris' eyes open wide as he finally understands what Wyatt's talking about. He wants to kill this man to raise Chris from the dead. But that's wrong. Murder is wrong. Chris reaches out towards his brother. "Wyatt, you can't..."

Wyatt's eyes flash, turning dark. "I can't? He killed you and you left me and now I'm all alone!"

"Mom... dad..." Chris tries to interrupt.

His brother waves his hand dismissively. "They don't understand anything. They know what I could've been and they always look at me all worried and tense, especially now. You never did. You knew me, the other me, and you never judged, never looked at me like I was a bomb just waiting to explode. It has always been you and me against the others. At school, at home, everywhere. And I need that back. I need you back. Without you here, I feel like one part of my life is missing. And I will do anything to get it... you... back."

Wyatt's eyes, his face hardens to stone and he grabs the athame, pulling the murderer's head back, exposing his throat.

"No!" Chris shouts, launching himself on his brother, trying to catch his raised arm and completely forgetting about his unearthly, unsubstantial state. Chris' wispy hands pass right through Wyatt's arm, his body, as the athame plunges down, as Wyatt thrusts it into the man's throat.

Chris floats aside and turns just in time to see Wyatt lift the man up and bend his bleeding, bubbling wound over the hole in the dead body's chest. The blood runs and drips while Wyatt mumbles the ancient ritual words, reading them from the book that lies open on the altar. Wind starts blowing and whistling through the church, the only thing unaffected by the sudden hurricane is the strange, eerie tome that seem to glow with an inner light.

In horror, Chris watches as the terrible wound in his body closes and color returns to his skin while his brother paints arcane symbols over his heart and on his arms and legs and forehead with his murderer's blood, while the life-giving fluid still runs down the man's throat and down his front, soaking into his dirty clothes. Chris can't tear his eyes away from the horrifying scene even as he feels some strange power's gentle, but more and more insistent pull on his soul.

And then a blinding light flashes outside, thunder booming and shaking the walls, the very ground. There is one last, terrible gust of wind that throws Chris' soul back into his body. The candles are snuffed, just like the nameless murderer's life, and there's only darkness.

The End


End file.
